Star Trek: New Worlds, New Civilizations

by Michael Jan Friedman

  There’s a hum of conversation permeating the place, though individual words are difficult to make out. However, I don’t need to hear them to know what people are thinking about.

  Gazing through a super-insulated, super-reinforced pane of transparent aluminum set above the control panels, I see a ruddy line developing between the sharp blue of the sky and the soft camel color of the mountains. The firestorm looks like it’ll take forever to reach us, but at the speed it’s traveling it’ll arrive in less than half an hour.

  If all the deflectors have been set up correctly, the colony will survive the storm intact. If not, our chances of survival drop substantially. But a human being left out on the open terrain of the perimeter, shielded only by the competing energy of the deflectors …

  Along with Julianna Bass and everyone else in the rotunda, I hope that Anton and his team make it back before the storm hits.

  Six years out of seven, Bersallis III is a reasonably generous host to the 640 or so Federation colonists who’ve made this world their home. Partway through the seventh year, it becomes a living hell.

  That’s when a buildup of particle emissions from the planet’s sun creates a series of savage firestorms that rampage from one pole to the other. In the core of these extraordinary meteorological phenomena, temperatures routinely climb to 300 degrees Celsius and winds reach velocities in excess of 350 kilometers an hour.

  For more than a century, these storms have followed a fairly predictable pattern. What’s more, the colony was able to weather them without taking any unusual steps.

  However, the last onslaught arrived eight months earlier than expected and exhibited twice the ferocity of anything that came before it—precipitating a call to a starship and the colony’s first-ever evacuation. The storm we’re facing now has materialized more than ten months ahead of time and its vital statistics are off the scale.

  It’s possible that this world is becoming too dangerous, that the Federation will have to abandon its installation here. If so, it would bring a remarkable research record to an end.

  The Bersallis III colony was the first to measure the effects of high-atmosphere plasma on airborne flora, the first to synthesize diberylium from native ores, the first to identify seven different varieties of harmful bacteria. Year after year, its high-flying reputation has attracted the foremost scientists in the Federation.

  But with the firestorms becoming more powerful, more unpredictable, that could all change.

  “Some people think working at a research colony is romantic,” says Niles Gutterman, a burly, gray-bearded exobiologist who’s also one of the colonists in charge of the firestorm readiness program. “There’s nothing romantic about it. You have to give up a lot for the sake of your work.”

  He looks out the window, hoping to see Anton Bass and his deflector team. There’s no sign of them yet, though the firestorm is gradually eating its way into the sky. It’s a pure, pale yellow at the horizon now, ascending frantically into shades of orange and red.

  Gutterman glances at Administrator Bass, who’s trying to distract herself by poring over a sensor panel, and scowls in his thick brush of a beard. “An awful lot,” he mutters.

  Like many of the colonists who’ve stayed here any serious length of time, Gutterman grew up at a Federation outpost. In his case, it was the research colony on Beta Canzandia, which was twice the target of Klingon raids before he turned ten.

  “The people who do best here are practical and self-sufficient,” Gutterman points out. “Those are qualities you develop when you’ve had experience with life at an outpost.”

  As I understand it, Julianna Bass grew up at an outpost as well—one that has since been turned over to the Cardassians. However, as I look at her face, I see there are some circumstances that no amount of experience can prepare you for.

  Seeing is believing: Safe within the observation post of the Bersallis III research colony, a scientist watches in awe as the fire wave races across the landscape, soon met by an array of instruments that will gather the most detailed data yet on this climactic anomaly. “Nothing prepared me for this. Nothing,” she was heard to say afterward.

  Just three days before the storm began to gather, twin girls were born to Terran astrophysicists Lorraine and Marvin Laxer. They were the eighteenth and nineteenth “native” births on Bersallis III, a world without any multicellular animal life of its own.

  As with all colony milestones, this one was celebrated with great intensity and in a variety of colorful ways. The Laxers’ Bolian colleagues showered them (literally) with gifts of precious metals—in this case gaudy red and silver flakes of tridianite and sorbomite mined from Bersallis III’s vast mineral deposits. A group of Bajorans got together and sang birth hymns over the babies for twelve hours straight. And the only Klingon on the station, an award-winning meteorologist named Trohka, drank enough bloodwine to render herself unconscious.

  But such occasions are few and far between, and they don’t begin to break up the legendary monotony of life at a Federation outpost. Research in any venue can be a tedious enterprise; in a place without civilization or even a holodeck to mimic one, where living space is limited and supply ships only show up once every six months, the tedium can be downright painful.

  To address the problem, the colonists hold a sporting event every evening before dinner—typically either Terran baseball or the Andorian game of elan’tina, which is similar to capture-the-flag. They’ve also made up some rather interesting holidays over the years.

  One example is the venerable but completely fabricated festival of Tuc’tu’tar, which in the primary Tellarite tongue means “to wear the trappings of another.” On this day, all colonists are required to dress and behave as if they were someone from another species—preferably, one of the twenty eight represented at the outpost.

  Another favorite is the Bersallin Music Extravaganza, during which everyone is invited to perform the most outrageous piece of music they can find on whatever instrument they care to come up with. Last year’s Extravaganza Award went to a Gallamite who played a rousing series of Gorn victory chants on a set of Bajoran dinner chimes.

  And so on.

  Unfortunately, even a full slate of games and holidays isn’t always enough to keep a sentient sane. That’s why all prospective colonists must undergo a rigorous psychological screening—not only to join the outpost on Bersallis III, but to join any outpost in the Federation.

  And even then, clinical depression isn’t as uncommon as we would like it to be. Eight years ago, it led to the colony’s first suicide—a case of unrequited love that claimed the life of a Pandrilite exobotanist. More commonly, it’s led to carelessness on the job and a handful of potentially life-threatening accidents.

  Ironically, the outpost has suffered more damage from these accidents than from anything else—even the firestorms. Several outlying storage buildings still bear the black burn scars of a deuterium explosion that took place several months ago. The cause? Improper maintenance of a research vehicle by a depressed technician.

  Clearly, morale is a major concern to everyone on Bersallis III. And it doesn’t help that, in the back of your mind, you’re always wondering when the weather’s going to turn deadly.

  Less than six minutes before the storms are expected to batter the deflector line, we catch sight of Anton Bass and his team.

  They’re running full-tilt for the shelter of the installation in their blue jumpsuits, a vicious, 500-meter-high wall of flame rising like a tidal wave just four or five kilometers behind them. Bass and another man are carrying shoulder bags full of equipment they were obviously reluctant to leave behind.

  “Damn him,” Julianna Bass mutters through clenched teeth. But her expression is unmistakably one of relief.

  “Drop shields,” says Gutterman, crowding the lavender-skinned Peljenite at the shield console. “Let them in.”

  The Peljenite complies and the colony’s electromagnetic barriers are temporarily dropped.
A moment later, Anton Bass and his colleagues sprint past the generator perimeter.

  “Shields up,” Gutterman barks.

  Again, the Peljenite does as he’s told. The shields are erected again, restoring the outpost’s second line of defense. The rotunda hums like a beehive, as if everyone was holding his breath to that point—which may indeed have been the case.

  Through the window, I can see the firestorm ravage what’s left of the heavens, obliterating them with an all-consuming, red-orange fury. The technician at the sensor console tracks the storm’s progress, announcing that it’ll run straight into the thermal deflectors—a good thing.

  “They’re in!” a voice crackles over the comm system, partly broken up by the mounting proliferation of energy particles in the air.

  But we all know what it means. Anton Bass and the others have entered the safety of the installation’s main building. They’re as well protected as any of us now.

  “Two minutes,” says the sensor technician.

  I can feel my pulse race. The storm already looks like it’s everywhere. How much closer can it possibly get?

  The rotunda fills with the sour stench of sweat and fear. It’s getting difficult to breathe. And still the firestorm approaches.

  The turbolift opens and Anton Bass is there, along with a breath of cool air. He’s tall and thin, with his mother’s freckles. Wordlessly, he moves to her side and she puts her arm around him.

  “We had trouble linking four and five,” says the younger Bass. “Marz and I had to reset the wave emitters by hand.”

  His mother nods, but doesn’t say anything in response. She just pulls him closer to her.

  “One minute,” the sensor operator calls out.

  We brace ourselves. I can hear the howl of demonic winds and see the fiery mouth of Hell open to engulf us. The temperature in the rotunda goes up another ten or twelve degrees.

  The only question now is whether the thermal deflectors are going to be enough to keep the storm at bay. The life of every colonist on the planet depends on the answer.

  “It’s here!” the sensor technician announces, his knuckles turning white as he grips his console.

  I glance at the sweaty faces of the colonists. They’re solemn, drawn, as colorless as death. But not one of them makes a sound of dismay. They know they’ve done everything they can to safeguard their installation; the rest is in the hands of Providence.

  A moment later, the storm buffets the deflector barrier with unimaginable fury, bringing wave after wave of superheated force. I can’t believe anything made by man will be able to withstand such power. It seems certain that we’ll be overwhelmed.

  But we’re not. Somehow, the deflector line holds its ground. The firestorm makes its way around us like a river of lava flowing around a rock, denied its quarry like every storm before it.

  After a while, the intensity of the storm begins to decrease. The winds don’t howl quite so loud. The red-orange flames start to falter, to yield to the blue of the sky.

  “We made it,” I think, then realize I’ve said the words out loud.

  Julianna Bass looks at me, a grim smile on her face. “Did you have any doubt?” she asks ironically.

  I smile back and shake my head. “None,” I tell her.

  In a matter of minutes, the storm is gone altogether. Of course, there could be others on the way, ready to spring on us without warning. But for now, the installation is safe.

  As the temperature drops again in the rotunda, we scan the terrain around the outpost. It’s completely black. Whatever grew there—a few varieties of scrub plants and lichen—has been burned to cinders.

  But it’ll grow back. Life has a way of doing that.

  Studying the firestorms as a potential energy source was but one of many objectives of Federation researchers. Alongside several observation stations, a line of thermal output sensors will measure variations in the storm’s temperature and power over hundreds of kilometers.

  KLINGON EMPIRE

  A WARRIOR’S, PATH

  The chant of “Martok! Martok!” rings through the hall. It is a warm heartfelt welcome for this battle-scarred veteran of the Dominion conflict. Many of the warriors in the hall have served with the new chancellor, and there is talk of the glory that lies ahead for the Empire with Martok at its helm.

  General Martok, the Chancellor of the Klingon Empire, submerges his goblet in a cauldron of bloodwine and raises it high so everyone in the smoky Hall of Warriors can see it.

  Martok is surrounded by four mighty flames that leap from huge metal braziers. His one eye seems to dance in their ruddy light. As his lips pull back, they expose sharp, pointed teeth.

  “To the Empire!” he growls.

  “To the Empire!” a hundred throats rumble in response, making the stone walls around them shiver.

  Then Martok drains his goblet and everyone present drinks with him, the rich, red bloodwine running down their chins into their beards. When they’re done, they pound each other on their armored shoulders and butt each other with their bony foreheads.

  The Hall of Warriors is a part of Ty’Gokor, the heavily armed orbital headquarters of the Klingon High Command. The occasion is Martok’s confirmation as chancellor.

  Normally, they don’t allow off-worlders like me to witness such events. Fortunately, Martok feels a kinship with certain Starfleet officers with whom he fought side by side against the Dominion. When the Starfleet News Service asked permission to give its audience a glimpse of the festivities, the general generously agreed.

  I’m glad he did. This place is staggeringly barbaric—especially the four metal statues that tower over the warriors assembled here, vividly reflecting the firelight.

  One is meant to resemble Kahless the Unforgettable, the warrior who united the Klingon Empire 1,500 years ago. A second is modeled after the Emperor Sompek, who leveled an entire city to save the Empire. A third reminds us of Ugilh, the hero of S’fajan Djag, and the fourth depicts Toldin, who held off the Federation forces at the Battle of Mordanus Prime.

  However, none of these statues is as regal or imposing as the female who presides over the celebration, overseeing the distribution of targ haunches and the refilling of the bloodwine cauldron. Her name is Sirella, the daughter of Linkasa, and she is the wife of Martok.

  Every now and then, she looks to the entrance and scowls. Having been briefed beforehand, I know she has good reason.

  The province of Kentha is hot, humid, and full of big, black insects this time of year. Klingons who live here tend to remain indoors until the warm weather passes and winter comes, bringing some relief.

  Nonetheless, there’s a warrior walking the province’s main road as if it were winter already, his long, brown hair falling proudly about his broad, white-robed shoulders. When he reaches a crossroads by a small, marshy lake, he turns to his right and heads west.

  Just a few kilometers from the crossroads, the warrior comes to a humble but sturdy-looking house made of large, dark stones. He’s met at the front door by one of the house’s retainers, who greets him with respect and invites him to come inside.

  In the house’s main chamber, the warrior meets the master of the place, an aged Klingon with white hair bound into a braid and two long wisps of a mustache. The warrior and his host embrace like old friends, though they’ve never met before face-to-face. Then the master of the house shows his guest to a chair, takes another one for himself, and calls for bloodwine. It’s brought by one of his daughters in a ceramic bottle bearing the ancient symbols for courage and honor. When the girl pours the wine, it flows thick and dark like the bodily fluid for which it’s named.

  The two men drink and wipe their mouths with the backs of their hands. Afterward, they put their metal goblets down and grin at each other for a while. Then the warrior asks his host a question.

  The master of the house strokes his mustache and thinks about it for a moment. At last, he answers.

  “His ribs cracked, his leg fract
ured, his heart true,” the warriors chant. A sang written about Chancellor Martok, who as a young man, “single-handed slew the sabre bear. At the beast’s death, this warrior cried out to warn the guardians of Sto-Vo-Kor that a worthy foe was at the gates.”

  The cauldron of bloodwine has been refilled twice and still the celebration for Martok at Ty’Gokor shows no sign of diminishing. But then, an event of this magnitude can last for days.

  Musicians arrive and take their places beneath the Klingon emblem on the wall. They beat their krad’dak drums and make shrill music on their long, slender abin’do pipes, stirring up the blood of the celebrants.

  The warriors sing songs of valor and victory, moistening their throats with more bloodwine and stoking their fervor with handfuls of serpent worms. They engage in contests of strength and endurance, with the loser often ending up unconscious on the floor.

  And still Sirella gazes expectantly at the entrance.

  The wind blows fiercely on the uneven ground of Kang’s Summit, bending the leaf-laden branches of the gray and yellow micayah trees. Overhead, great, gray piles of storm clouds slide across the sky.

  A knot of hunters sits on a great, flat stone beneath the trees, fitting their dark, tran’nuc-wood bows with knotted strings made of s’tarahk-gut. As they work, they share a jest, but they’re careful not to chuckle too loudly. After all, they don’t want to scare away any sabre bears who might be lurking in the brush downslope.

  In the distance, a twisted spear of white lightning stabs the horizon and thunder groans in response. But the hunters pay no attention. They’ve sniffed the air, so they know the storm will pass them to the east.

  Suddenly, something moves upwind of them—and it’s not just a micayah branch. Catching sight of it, they drop their bows and free the daggers at their sides. Their eyes narrow beneath their brow ridges, ready for anything, as a closer bolt of lightning illuminates the mountaintop.